Wednesday, 28 October
The calls started coming just after seven. They were relentless.
‘Would you like to comment, Dr Bloom?’ ‘How do you feel about your wife’s death now, Dr Bloom?’
He’d fucked up. That much was obvious. Lessons had been learned.
Pictures of him appeared in the Daily Express under the headline: DOCTOR SHOPS FOR UNDERWEAR DAYS AFTER WIFE MURDERED.
He had been photographed at the till in the Calvin Klein shop, laughing with the sales assistant, handing her his Superior trunks. And then, once more, outside Ann Summers. That was the money ball. He had his head turned, and he was smiling in the direction of the photographer, with the blindfolded mannequin in the background. Noel had to agree it was an excellent shot – if you were trying to create a narrative for some poor bastard you wanted to nail. He wondered how much the photographer had been paid. An easy day’s work, he should think.
Noel made the front page (though, it had to be said, it was a slow news day) and his thoughts immediately turned to Amanda Knox. Escorted by her boyfriend, Miss Knox had bought new underwear after her housemate had been found murdered in Italy, and the press had crucified her for it. Amanda’s excuse had been that she’d shopped for underwear because she wasn’t allowed at the crime scene, her home, but she also bought a host of other essentials that day. Which had always seemed a pretty plausible explanation to Noel. But he didn’t have that excuse. He’d bought new underwear because he wanted to spruce himself up a bit for DS Joanne Aspinall, should they have the opportunity to get together again. But he could hardly say that, could he?
So instead he said, ‘No comment…no comment…no comment,’ and then he unplugged the phone, before nipping out to pick up a paper to survey the full extent of the damage. He’d read it online first, of course, but he wanted to see the hard copy in all its glory. And it was worse than he thought. The only other story on the front page was one of more bad weather on the way, so Noel was the main feature. The story continued on page two, where a photograph of Karen had been included. Except that it looked nothing like Karen. At this blunder, Noel’s heart leapt, as he thought of the possibility of suing the Daily Express for getting their facts wrong. But then he realized they’d copied Karen’s Facebook profile picture. The one of her lying on the bedroom floor. The one she’d taken from above in an attempt to make her appear younger. The wind-tunnel picture, as he’d come to think of it.
At nine thirty, his mobile rang.
‘Noel,’ she said.
‘Joanne,’ he replied.
‘You’re famous, I see.’
‘It’s looking that way, yes.’
‘Not a great move,’ she said. ‘Have you spoken to the press?’
‘I’m avoiding their calls. The kids don’t know yet either. They were with me yesterday, incidentally. The story doesn’t mention that. We were having a day out, the four of us, in an attempt to take Brontë’s mind off things, and I don’t know if you’ve been to the Trafford Centre, but it’s quite ghastly. Anyway, I took myself off to a quieter section in an attempt to keep sane. Sadly, my plan backfired.’
‘You should probably warn the kids to stay inside,’ Joanne said. ‘The press may turn up,’ and Noel detected something in her voice. Was it weariness? Or was she just plain pissed off with him?
‘Joanne?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Will this affect the investigation?’
‘Hard to say,’ she said.